WHEEEE IT'S ME! Okayokay I am kind of scared to be posting this - you guys are probably scratching your heads like, "who are you? what is this story?" I know, I deserve to be forgotten (and probably far worse) but I guess I'm willing to risk the bricks through my virtual window, the death threats and lynch mobs that will surely accompany my return after such a long and poorly timed hiatus. Believe what you wish for the reason behind my absence: top secret government mission, discovering a lost city, doing voice work for the next Tintin movie... The truth is far more mundane - it was an insane semester of school that I am glad to leave firmly in the past. Anyway, consider me back in business!
Unfortunately, you may have forgotten what the hey is going on in the world of Behind Black Masks. WELL, the easy answer is to click back and read Ch. 24 again, which should catch you up on what you really need to know for this chapter. Ch. 24's the one where Tintin and Monique finally reunite? Monique shares those incriminating messages she's found, which she wants to use to uncover Macarthur for the slimeball he is? If no bells are ringing here, you may have to go back and refresh yourself. (I know, it's lame - I'm sorry!)
But maybe you're nodding, 'yep, I got it, I remember, just give me the story!' in which case - you are my hero! Here we go...
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
FIRE
The wind snapped with the promise of a bitter night, cold as Macarthur's smile on the back of Monique's neck. His sure, slender hand still reached towards her, extending down from his silhouette on the headquarters' roof.
Beside him, two other shadows were cut against the darkening sky. The slighter of the two was nearly swallowed by the heavy shoulders of the one behind him, pressing him against the ledge of the roof. Hard yellow light dripped down the barrel of a pistol at his temple, grinding into his skin.
Tintin seemed calm, his shoulders level, hands held still behind his back. But Monique caught the vulnerable turn of his neck, the way his chest shook with every shallow breath. Panic clawed its way through her stomach, and she timed her breath with his, as if to make sure he didn't stop.
Macarthur sighed and brought up his other hand to glance at his wrist. "I'm afraid I haven't got all day, dearest," he hissed. "And neither, unfortunately, does your reporter."
Monique blinked against the sting of the wind. She knew, without looking down, that weasel Perry was still pacing back and forth fifteen feet below her, ready if either she or the rickety trellis decided to let go. She snapped her gaze back to Tintin. Something hot and unbridled closed around her throat.
She flew up the next few feet faster than the trellis could give out underneath her, hand over hand on the rungs, the wood groaning at her weight. The top rung splintered under her boots just as she closed the gap between her and Macarthur's hand. She nearly managed to surprise him with her quick, sure grip around his wrist.
Monique clung to him, digging her fingernails into his skin. Empty space suddenly yawned beneath her. She writhed in mid-air, choking on her own breath, and struggled to swing her boots up onto the ledge of the roof. Macarthur let out an easy chuckle and lifted her up with one arm. A smooth, volatile strength rippled under his skin.
Just as Monique felt stone under her feet, Macarthur leaned forward, his slate grey eyes level with hers. Monique dug her fingers into his arm as hard as she could, her breath sharp as he pushed her back farther, threatening her weak centre of balance. Her heels scratched up dust at the lip of the ledge.
"You may have been under the impression that I, a man with so much in my control, might let something… slip." Macarthur punctuated the last word by jerking his arm out farther, forcing Monique to fight for her slim claim on the ledge.
His lip curled. "Inevitably, you would prevail, the David to my Goliath, with your sticky fingers and raffish code of ethics, surely you would at least have luck on your side?"
Monique could barely breathe, much less manage a reply. Macarthur seemed content without it. He drew closer, wearing a thin smile.
"I'm sorry to say it, darling… but luck is not enough."
He stepped back suddenly, ripping his arm out of her grasp. Monique pitched backwards, terror chasing itself down her spine, and spun her arms wildly to keep from falling off the roof. She fell forwards instead, considering for a split second whether that really was the better option, and hit the roof palms first. The rest of her tumbled down after, and she landed in a heap. She curled into herself on instinct, wincing as a sudden cloud of dust stung her eyes.
"Oh, come now," Macarthur trilled. "Do get up. This won't take long."
Monique lifted her head, peeling her hands off the roof. A sharp warmth pinched her palms. She struggled to her knees and risked a glance at Tintin. Through the remaining sunset light, she could just make out her own pain drawn across his face. His feet wrenched forwards, then stopped still, held back by the gun at his temple.
Monique's fingers twitched, curling into fists. She gathered her strength, wound it into the back of her throat, and pulled herself to her feet.
"Now," said Macarthur. He held out an upturned palm. "Let's not waste any more time."
Monique nodded. "Sure. Let's call my uncle up here right now. We'll give 'im an honest introduction to an honest businessman."
"Don't toy with me, girl," Macarthur snarled. He snapped his hand shut, taking a step closer. "I know what you've got in your pocket, and I believe it belongs to me."
"That invitation I took out of your notebook this morning?" Monique tinted the word 'invitation' with sugary sarcasm. "You know, you could've just told the police to come here, instead. Woulda' saved a lot of time." She took a step back, scuffing up dust, and set her jaw. A dusky, moonless night had begun to tumble over them. Distant windows of the buildings below offered the only light, casting shadows up the hard angles of Macarthur's face.
He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know how much you've heard from your reporter, but I can tell you that a single note is hardly enough to pin me with such accusations." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pair of gloves, so black they swallowed light. "I gather you haven't yet mustered the courage to tell your uncle about your discovery?" Macarthur asked, mouth curling.
Monique wanted to rip the smirk off his face. She leaned back and crossed her arms. "If I had, you'd be spitting up bullets," she said coolly.
"My, my. What an active imagination you have." Macarthur tugged the gloves over his pale fingers. "You've somehow got the idea that I would allow anything that dangerous within your reach." He chuckled, pressing his fingers together. "Amusing, but thankfully impossible."
Monique clenched her jaw. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," she bit the words, careful. "Don't you think the Mapaches would have a few questions for you, if they found your warning for an emergency that hasn't happened yet? How would you explain that away?"
Macarthur rubbed his thumb and forefinger absently. "Believe me, darling, my talent for 'explaining it away' is the most valuable thing I possess. That's why they call it a silver tongue." He showed his teeth in a brief grin. "And here's another question for you. When it comes to my integrity, whom are they more likely to believe?"
Monique was silent. You thought the same thing yourself, a voice perked up in the back of her mind. It didn't matter that the notes were solid proof. It didn't matter that she was only trying to save their sorry skins. The wind traced a cold finger over her neck, and Monique shuddered.
Macarthur watched her, eyes gleaming. When he spoke again, his voice was soft enough to make her ears itch.
"You will find that there are many people in this world who prefer a lie over the truth. You may be one of them." His mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "Your reporter certainly is, poor boy." He took a lazy step towards Tintin, tilting his head. "He still wants to believe you care for him as much as he does for you. He's willing to risk everything."
Macarthur traced a line down Tintin's cheek with his thumb. The boy winced, his brow knitting together. His eyes flashed to Monique, then flicked away just as quickly, undoing the lapse of softness in his mouth.
Macarthur shook his head, drawing his hand away. "And you'd think he'd have learned from Sanya." His voice had gathered some manic energy, sharp and crackling. "You led him to his death, and though by some miracle he managed to elude it then, here he is again, following you like a trained monkey." Macarthur turned to Monique, dropping his voice again. "All because he's fallen for your lie."
"Y-you don't know anything…" The words crumbled on her tongue, useless. Monique couldn't help herself. She caught Tintin's eyes.
And knew she would regret it for the rest of her life.
His eyes burned with light, brow in a gentle arc, the anger smoothed from his face. His lips were parted, as if something was caught on the tip of his tongue. Something swift and sure and unwavering.
She had never wanted to kiss him more than she did then.
Her pulse trickled to every limb of her body, and it made her feel warm, and dizzy, and alive. Macarthur loomed over her like a lanky marionette, jerked on his strings, one side of his mouth quirked up in a smug grin.
"Let me be clear; I don't blame you." He raised a hand. "It is rather tempting, to spin a lie, surround yourself with it, and live it for as long as you can. It's so easy to be taken in." His voice glided over the words, twisting out his silver thread. "After all, once you've believed it long enough, is there any difference between the truth… and a lie?"
Monique went still. A crazy idea had just filled her mind like the sun in the sky, so obvious it burned. Tintin was lost in her, waiting for her answer.
"Yes."
The shadows shrank back as Monique took a step forwards. Macarthur turned to her, an eyebrow raised. Tintin leaned in, drawn to that one word, without even a breath to break the silence.
Monique pinned Macarthur down with her eyes, freezing him as she lifted her voice. "The difference between the truth and a lie is that someone knows. Someone strong enough to admit it. And someone is willing to fight for the truth."
She sensed the smile on Tintin's face without seeing it. She let it fuel her, strengthen her voice. "I know what you're planning to do, Macarthur. You're gonna march the Mapaches right into the police's hands. All it takes is one lousy radio message to make them disappear."
Macarthur shifted away, out of her gaze. "But isn't that what they've signed up for, darling?" his voice oozed. "Isn't that their dream, to die for their cause?"
Monique squared her shoulders, fists clenched by her sides. "Stealing oil halfway across the world is not their cause."
Macarthur raised his eyebrows. "No?" He drew his hands behind his back. "Aren't I supplying them with weapons, and that essential gift of organization, leading them closer to their ultimate goal of a free Argentina?" He stopped, fixing her under his gaze. "They would either die here or on the streets of their country, all I did was make that decision for them." His lip twitched, a fleeting snarl. "I've put enough into this project to make a few decisions."
Monique shook her head. "That is not the kind of decision anyone is allowed to make. It's murder, plain and simple." She tilted her chin up, defiant. "And you're not getting away with it."
Macarthur flashed a bemused smile, then his face fell into something quiet and sinister. "Monique, my dear, every single one of these men has pledged his life for his country. I've bought that pledge, and now those lives are mine," he said, soft, knowing that his words hit like bullets. "I won't be accused of murder by a foolish girl, all up in arms over losing her brother. Your brother is already lost. He was lost the moment he picked up a rifle."
Monique felt her heartbeat pounding in her throat, burning though paper-thin skin. A cold gust of wind rustled over her, chipping away at the strength she'd thought she felt. A sharp, gnawing void replaced it. The tiny victories she'd fought tooth and nail for, Alex's stiff arms around her, a flash of Tintin's smile, were running like sand through her fingers. He can take everything, the realisation hit her. He can, and he will.
The man slithered closer and bent to meet her eyes, scrunching up his brow in mock sympathy. "There, there… don't fret your pretty little head about it." He lifted a gloved hand to her cheek, brushing a single runaway tear. Monique stood still, every nerve under her skin rebelling at his touch.
"My dear, there is so much of this you can't possibly understand." Something sharp nipped underneath the words. "But I assure you that the Mapaches will, in fact, be laying down their lives for their country. It's my only regret that they won't live to see how their beloved Argentina is bettered by this mission."
Macarthur straightened and paced. "You can call me a monster, a murderer, whatever," he waved a hand, "the fact remains that this is all for a higher purpose." He clapped Monique under his metallic gaze. "I have devoted years… years of my life to this night. I will contribute more to the world than you can begin to imagine. In fact, the war itself may end within the next few weeks, if tonight goes as planned."
The lines of his suit, held taut by his threatening form, relaxed as he dropped his shoulders. He sighed. "But, of course, none of that matters to you. You've been kept blissfully ignorant of world politics, and because of that…" Macarthur laid a hand on Tintin's shoulder, smiling down at him. He turned back to Monique. "I'm glad that I hold something much dearer to your heart."
Her eyes met with Tintin's, and suddenly the air was choked with only their breath. Monique remembered, then, what he'd said after she'd found him in the gun crate; "Why are you so happy to see me?" He had no idea. She should have just shut him up then, when she had the chance, kissed him until he could answer his own damn question.
Tintin swallowed, his brow creased as he searched Monique's eyes. She hoped he knew, just once, exactly what she was thinking.
"Sir!"
Monique whirled around to see the upper half of her brother wriggling up through a trapdoor, the only available entry to the roof. He scrambled out and got to his feet, saluting Macarthur as he stood in one swift movement.
"I was told you were up here, sir," Alex panted. "A report from the lower level guards- Miss Fronville is…" he trailed off, his gaze coming to rest on Monique, and finished slowly, "not in the basement."
Macarthur sighed. "Thank you, Teniente. We now have a firm grasp of the obvious."
Monique linked eyes with Alex. His shoulders sank as he looked from the thug holding Tintin, to Macarthur, then back to Monique. She swallowed. There was more to him now than brotherly disapproval. He looked exhausted.
Alex squared his shoulders, with some effort, and saluted again. "Sir. I'll give el General a full report of this security breach." He turned to leave.
"No, you won't."
Alex glanced over his shoulder, turning wide eyes up at Macarthur.
"I don't think I've given you leave, Teniente."
Alex winced, turning fully around. "No, sir."
"However, I do think… oh, how shall I put it…" He tapped a finger to his cheek. "I am about to neutralise this particular breach once and for all. I just need something from your sister first."
Monique took a step back, hands lifted in defence, mind scrambling for a way to buy herself some time. Macarthur grinned down at her.
"See, darling, all is not lost. You can still save this one," he swung a hand towards Tintin. "You might just have your," he gave a dark chuckle, "happy ending yet." His black-gloved hand unfurled before her, palm up. "All I need from you is the note."
The sky was nearly black. Monique shuddered, but not for the cold. The faint flush of light from below caught snatches of every face, turned towards her, waiting.
Underneath a careful mask, her thoughts darted back and forth. The note, he said. An idea came to her in fragments. One note. That's all he wants.
Monique blinked. She drew her hand to her back pocket, her fingers clutching at the papers. Two of thick stock, from Macarthur's notebook, the drafts of a false warning message. The third, the message to the Ha'il police, its edges curled from the damp coastal air. Monique closed her eyes, pulling her mind down to her fingertips, until every rustle felt as loud as thunder.
Her eyes snapped open.
Macarthur's face loomed over her, a barely contained madness gleaming in his eyes. "You have three seconds before I give Pavel the order to fire."
One note slipped between her fingers and into her palm.
"Three."
Tintin caught her eyes in his, clear and alight with a fierce hope.
"Two."
A weighted pause, and Macarthur raised his other hand, fingers curled. His man levelled a finger over the trigger, waiting. Tintin closed his eyes, every muscle tensed.
"Here." Monique snapped the silence apart. Tintin's eyes opened, meeting hers.
She thrust her hand forward, a single note peeking from her closed fist. She tried to steady her shoulders, drawing her chin up hard.
Macarthur grinned. "Wonderful," he purred, lowering his hand. The broad-shouldered goon took his finger off the trigger, loosening his grip on Tintin. It was enough to allow a shift, a shallow breath of relief, as Tintin let his shoulders drop.
Macarthur wasn't finished. "Now, open your hand."
Monique obeyed.
From within his coat, Macarthur drew a thin silver cylinder, and tossed it to Monique. She caught it in her other hand.
"Burn it." His eyes flickered.
Monique took as deep a breath as she dared and ignited the lighter. A hiss of gas escaped, followed by a thin finger of yellow flame. It stretched upwards, then curled, dancing back and forth. Monique let it lick her hand as she held it under the note.
"Very good, just like that," Macarthur murmured. His eyes flicked over to Alex, who made no effort to hide his confusion, staring at the note and the fire beneath it.
Macarthur grimaced. "I apologize for this, Teniente Fronville, but I'm afraid your sister has taken her little game one step too far. With this note, she planned to attempt sabotage of our entire operation."
Monique looked at Alex, at the hurt in his eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, breaking her gaze. Black devoured the edges of the note, marring the words past legibility.
Macarthur gave Alex a shrug. "I'm only doing what I must, you understand." His eyes turned back to the lighter, reflecting the curling flame. "For the greater good," he finished, quiet.
Monique kept her eyes on the fire. It leapt from the lighter to the note, taking on a new life as it ate away the writhing edges of the paper. She kept her hold on the note until the flame tinged her fingers, then let it drop onto the rooftop.
The lighter snapped shut. Monique handed it back to Macarthur with an even nod. This was the trick, she decided, the tightrope line; keeping a tight lid on the anger that bubbled up her throat. Black-gloved fingers brushed hers, leaving a chill on her burned fingertips.
"Thank you, my dear." Macarthur tucked the lighter back into his coat and pursed his lips. "Now for the hard part." He clasped his hands together in front of him, eyes fixed on her. "You do understand that the Mapaches will never allow you into their company again. Not after this flagrant breach of trust."
Monique didn't say anything. She held her gaze steady, not trusting herself to look at Alex. Every move is a gamble, now, she thought.
Macarthur turned to face Alex, grimacing. "Teniente, let me remind you where your duty lies. First, with your cause. Then, with your fellow Mapaches, and finally, it lies with me." He levelled his cold gaze on the boy. "What happened here was unfortunate, true. But there are times when the truth raises more questions than it answers, wouldn't you agree?"
Alex remained silent, eyes narrowed.
Macarthur pursed his lips. "So, now I'll ask you a question, and I suggest you answer carefully. Are you going to report what has happened here to your Uncle?"
The blood drained from Alex's face, his fists uncurling into loose, dead things by his sides. His tongue darted out to swipe across his lower lip, a nervous tic. He dropped his head, then lifted his eyes to meet Monique's. He didn't break his gaze when he spoke.
"No." His voice was soft, nearly inaudible.
Macarthur tilted his head, drawing Alex's attention back in. "What will you tell him?" he asked, as if prodding a wound.
Alex shook his head. "I… I can't, sir, please-"
"You'll have to explain Ms. Fronville's absence somehow." Macarthur raised an eyebrow.
Alex's eyes were wide and empty. "Her… absence," he repeated.
Macarthur frowned. "Yes," he drew out the word, exasperated. "Surely you agree that she cannot return to the Mapaches. You must decide what you'll tell your Uncle."
Alex looked to Monique, eyes shining. "I… I'll tell him she-" His voice failed him. He tried again. "I'll tell him she ran away. Like she did before."
Macarthur nodded slowly. "Good. Make him believe you. In fact, I suggest that you start believing it, too. It'll be far easier that way."
Alex nodded, his head ducked to his chest. He took a step backwards. "Mr. Macarthur, sir, I beg your leave," he choked.
"Wait."
Alex looked up at Monique, and she was surprised to see tears balanced in the corners of his eyes. Monique had put her hand up without meaning to, reaching towards him. She swallowed, and turned fiercely on Macarthur.
"I'll say goodbye." It wasn't a question.
"Will you, now?" Macarthur raised an eyebrow, amused. He looked between the two of them, considering. "I suppose there is little harm in that. However, before you try anything, I suggest you remember who is still under which gun."
"I remember," said Monique. She glanced at Tintin. Here goes. My last trick, she thought, as hard as she could. She hoped some of his famous luck had rubbed off on her. Even if I don't deserve any, I sure could use it now, she thought, turning to face her brother.
Alex looked down at her as she stepped up close to him, his mouth hardened into a thin line. His shoulders drew away from her as much as he could without actually stepping backwards. Monique surprised herself by smiling, because it was almost funny how guilty he felt for abandoning her now, after all these months of apathy. She threw her arms around his stomach, squeezing him hard, like how she used to greet him every night after training.
"It'll turn out alright, Alex. Trust me," she murmured into his chest, words meant only for him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her like he thought she might break.
Monique lifted her head, demanding his eyes. "You have to trust me." Behind his back, she played it by touch rather than sight, feeling the two remaining notes slip from her sleeve into the palm of her hand, and from there into his back pocket. Alex jerked his chin back at the movement. He looked down at her, confusion creasing his brow.
"Do that for me, will you?" she asked, softly, searching his eyes. Alex drew away from her, his face hesitant, considering. After a moment, he nodded.
"I will," he said.
Monique wanted to pull him back into her. She couldn't let herself believe this was the last time, so she didn't, and pretended it was all part of the show. Even the words, as they left her mouth, weren't real. "Goodbye, Alex."
"Nicky." His voice was fragile, like her name hurt in his mouth. He stepped away from her as quick as he could, stiffening again. He pulled his shoulders up straight, and turned on his heels to give Macarthur a salute.
"Thank you, Teniente," said Macarthur. "Your sacrifice is admirable."
Alex bobbed his head, a brusque nod.
"You are dismissed."
Monique stared carefully at nothing while she listened to her brother's boots fade away, before the trapdoor opened and shut, leaving silence to settle over her again. Brittle night air replaced the warmth of Alex's touch.
Macarthur took a few steps towards the trapdoor, hands clasped behind his back. Monique watched him, wondering for one hopeful second if he was going to let them be. If he really would let them run away.
Then he spoke, voice carried on the snapping wind. "I'm going to do this the way I should have done it the first time. The way I should have done it weeks ago." He held out a hand to his henchman. "Give me the gun."
Tintin dared to lift his head. "They'll hear the shots," he said, matter-of-fact.
Macarthur chuckled, waving his other hand, as his man gave him the pistol. The exchange was over before Monique dared to take advantage of it, and Macarthur coolly pointed it towards Tintin again. "I'll tell them I was disposing of a few rats," he said. "Nothing to worry about. They won't question me. They can't afford to."
Monique felt the seconds counting down like a time bomb in her chest. Panic came back to coil around her, tightening every nerve. It was all out of her hands, and into the pocket of the boy who had left her here. What if Alex doesn't understand the notes? The idea pricked holes in her lungs. What if he doesn't want to?
With so little light, shadows defined the stillness. Macarthur's profile sharpened, the gun a gleaming tint of black in his outstretched hand. Tintin was no more than a silhouette. His eyes glistened with a cool flame, burning sapphire.
Before she could take another breath, Monique found herself standing in front of Tintin.
She stood between him and Macarthur, the gun's metal nose facing her. Monique glanced down. It was her own feet that had pushed her in front of the pistol.
"Monique," Tintin's voice in her ear, soft and hoarse. "What are you doing?"
She tried not to hear the note of desperation in his voice. She spoke up, words piercing the wind.
"Any bullet for him is gonna have to go through me first." She squared her shoulders.
Macarthur's lip twitched in a snarl. "As you wish."
"Don't do this, Monique, listen to me." Tintin bent his head so his breath brushed her neck, words tumbling out in a rush. "You can still make it out of here-"
He stopped when Monique turned around, bringing her face inches from his. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered. "Not without you."
Her eyes closed, and a dense silence surrounded them. Monique felt her muscles tighten, bracing herself for the shot. A high ringing noise filled her ears. Louder than her heartbeat. Almost loud enough to drown out the sound that split the air.
A whistle, shrill and sudden. It screeched far below them in three quick bursts. Immediately, the murmur of distant voices mounted to a crescendo. Shouts echoed up through the floors, boots pounded on wood like gathering thunder. The sound came closer, up through the levels of the building, until it felt as though the roof itself was about to burst underneath their feet.
Monique opened her eyes. Tintin looked down at her, stunned. A wave of pure relief washed over her, and she fought a smile as she turned around to face Macarthur. The man's face had contorted into a grimace, brow knit as he listened to the clamour below him.
"What is the matter down there?" he snapped, eyes narrowing. The pistol was still in his hand, ready to fire, but he had forgotten it. His gaze landed on Monique, realisation sparking in his eyes. "You," he growled.
"Guess you can't beat a pickpocket at her own game, Macarthur." Monique smirked.
The trapdoor opened with a bang, making Macarthur wince and whirl towards the noise. A blur of movement flashed past Monique, and suddenly Tintin was in front of her, taking advantage of Macarthur's shock to smack the pistol from his hand. Tintin caught the gun before it could hit the floor, hefting it in his palm like it belonged there. He backed up to stand beside Monique, his aim shifting between Macarthur and his henchman.
Macarthur had lifted his palms, slowly, in surrender and disbelief. He remained still, unblinking, even as General Fronville rose up from the open trapdoor.
Monique had never been so relieved to see her uncle this angry. Light spilled out from the hatch, casting shadows up the scowl etched in his face. He held up the two notes Monique had slipped into Alex's pocket, clutched in his fist.
"Señor Macarthur," he bowed his head with a jerk, more out of habit than respect. "I believe you know what I have come to ask you."
A steady stream of Mapaches crawled out of the open hatch behind him, rifles slung over their shoulders.
Macarthur turned, with a stiff smile. "My dear General, this is all a gross misunderstanding-"
"I agree," Uncle Leon cut him off. "I understood our plans to be hidden from the White Army of Ha'il, which is fully capable of destroying us, and that you were to ensure that confidentiality. It appears you had a different understanding."
Macarthur twitched, eyes narrowing. "Those notes are false. They were fabricated by these two pests," he swung out an arm towards Tintin and Monique, "in an effort to create this very problem." He sweetened his tone, careful. "You mustn't let yourself be hoodwinked by a couple of children."
Monique's uncle cast her a glance, then replied, "Sí, señor. However, I can recognise your handwriting."
"Clever forgery, yes, but not clever enough to fool you, I hope." Macarthur drew his hands behind his back.
Uncle Leon glanced down at the notes again, eyes narrowing as he searched their content. Doubt flickered across his eyes. That snake really is gonna talk his way out of this, Monique realised, her stomach sinking. Unless…
Quicker than she could think better of it, Monique darted forwards, her hand sliding into Macarthur's left inner jacket pocket, where her fingers found the rough skin of his notebook. She had pulled it out and stepped back before Macarthur got the chance to make a sound of protest. He lunged for it a second too late, snarling.
Monique held it well out of his reach and stepped towards her uncle. "Tío, this should tell you all you need to know. That note," she pointed to the one of thicker stock, "came from this book." Monique handed it to him.
Her uncle gave her a questioning look, before flipping through the notebook. His men, at least dozen by then, cast glances between their General and Macarthur, hefting their rifles in their hands.
Macarthur raised his voice, "General Fronville, I beg you to hear reason. Don't believe a word in that notebook." A sheen of sweat began to bead on his upper lip.
Uncle Leon fixed him with a glare. "This is your book. I have seen you with it." He went back to the pages, his mouth set in a hard line.
Macarthur clenched his jaw. "Yes, but your darling niece got a hold of it, and I cannot speak for what she may have-"
"Don't waste your breath, señor. I can see that my niece is right." He had lined up the ripped edge of the note to its proper place in the notebook.
Monique saw her chance, and took it. "I tried to tell you before, Uncle," she admitted. He nodded for her to go on. "Macarthur was never gonna help you with your revolution. All he wanted was something to dangle in front of the police. Bait."
Uncle Leon bristled at this, snapping the notebook shut. The other Mapaches shifted on their feet. A dozen pairs of dark eyes flashed.
"This is ludicrous." Macarthur's silken voice had raised a few pitches. "General, don't listen to her."
"Then listen to me."
Alex had stepped out of the small crowd of Mapaches. He caught Monique's eyes. His jaw was set hard in determination.
Macarthur exhaled. "Ah, Teniente Fronville, thank you." He gestured to the General. "Do put this to rights."
"I sure will." Alex turned to his uncle, solemn. "Señor, I don't know much about these notes, but I can tell you Macarthur didn't want you to know about them."
Silence prevailed for a moment as Macarthur went still, his eyes locked on Alex. Something cold and fluid writhed just under his skin, betraying a rage beyond his control.
Alex swallowed and went on, "Y'see, I found him up here right as he was taking care of Monique and the reporter, but he made me swear not to breathe a word of it to you. It didn't seem right, señor. I thought I oughta tell you the truth." He stepped back, head bowed.
"Your honesty does you credit, m'ijo. Gracias."
Alex nodded and gave Monique a quick, gratified glance.
Uncle Leon turned back to the accused. "As for you, Señor Macarthur, this is difficult to believe. Difficult… but not impossible. Have you anything to say in your defence?"
Macarthur's gaze was frantic, moving between each Mapache. His eyes followed the movement of the rifles in their hands, gleaming barrels tilted upwards. Drops of sweat chased each other down his temples, his mouth jerking in a frenzied twitch. Finally his lips stopped, peeling back over his white teeth in a wolf-like grin. A laugh started deep his throat.
"No," he paused, with an uneven chuckle. "I have nothing more to say."
Uncle Leon stared him down, eyes glowing. "You don't deny you wrote these messages?"
"Of course I wrote them," Macarthur threw up a hand, with another short bark of a laugh. "You're all perfect idiots." He shook his head. "You really thought I was going to put millions into your amateur coup, for the 'good of Argentina.' I am working for the good of the world." His smile vanished, voice dropping into a husky growl."You all are a necessary cog in a larger machine, and no matter what you do, you'll still play your part."
One of the Mapaches standing behind their General gave a short screech on his whistle. More and more men began pouring out of the hatch to the roof. They all shifted their rifles up in their arms, aiming at Macarthur with hard, purposeful eyes. There were too many barrels to count, all lifted with deadly precision.
Macarthur raised his hands, laughter bubbling out of his throat. "Yes, even if you kill me, one of my men will go to the police and send them here instead." More guns shifted their aim to Macarthur's henchman, who raised his beefy hands and took a step back.
Macarthur shook his head at them, smiling. "And while the police are busy straightening this mess out, a higher purpose will be fulfilled. One that you have, in due course, helped to achieve."
"Not if we have anything to say about it." Tintin raised an eyebrow. His voice had a sharp edge to it, sending a slight shiver through Monique.
Macarthur swung his head to look at them, brow twisted in mock sympathy. "My dears, you have no idea what you're up against. No idea how deep this operation goes." He gave them a crooked smile. "It doesn't end with me, not by a long shot."
Tintin tightened his grip on the pistol, his aim still true for Macarthur's heart. His tongue darted across his lower lip in thought. "Just answer me one last question, Macarthur," he said. "Where is Cezar Dudek?"
Macarthur gave a short, dark chuckle. "Dudek? No idea. Off hiding from his own shadow, I imagine. And the ghosts of the poor saps who worked with him."
"Who killed them?"
"Why, Dudek himself, of course."
Tintin's eyes widened, his finger slipping away from the trigger. He took a step back, and grit his jaw.
"Come on, we have to go," he said, his voice low. He took Monique's hand and started pulling her to the other side of the roof.
Monique ran with him, her steps halting, every moment tumbling too quickly into the next. She looked over her shoulder to see Macarthur fall to his knees on the rough concrete. The Mapaches moved in towards him, and Monique soon gave up trying to pick out her brother in the crowd. The scrape of boots over concrete and the clicks of cocking rifles rose in a muttering of noise. Macarthur's harsh, rasping laugh rang out, and Monique's last image of him was as he threw his head back, his voice lifted up on the wind into the black sky.
"You can't say I didn't warn you," Macarthur cackled again, breath catching in his throat. Monique turned back around as Tintin tugged harder on her hand, and she stumbled after him up to the roof's edge.
Macarthur's voice called out behind them, "You're playing with fire, Tintin!"
Monique glanced up at the boy beside her. His brow was bent over burning eyes, mouth in a grim line.
"Fire," he whispered.
"Fire." Uncle Leon told his men. The air split with gunshots, crackling after each other like lightning through the empty sky. The sound lit up in Monique's ears, pounding in muffled bursts, as she took the last step with Tintin onto the edge of the roof.
He doesn't have to ask if I trust him. He already knows. The thought fluttered, taking wing. Monique squeezed his hand tight before letting go, and felt a jolt as she leapt before looking, boots kicking off the stone.
The wooden floor of a balcony swung up underneath her much sooner than Monique expected it. She landed, the impact stinging her ankles, and grimaced. Tintin took her hand again, without a word, and they skidded down the stairway which led from the balcony to the street.
As their feet met the sandy ground, a hesitant, unbroken silence settled over the sky. Monique let go of Tintin's hand and turned around, walking backwards. She looked up towards the rooftop a last time. Darkness had settled into it, the sky reaching down to smother the building.
Monique let out her breath. She turned on her heels to catch up with Tintin, who was beckoning her down the street ahead. Her feet lightened. She raced through the shadows, and didn't look back again.
AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Man, what a monster of a chapter! It was so hard to line up everything that had to line up, and work it all out, but the hard part is over now *phew* so the rest of the story should be a piece of cake. (Yes, there is more story to come!) Mmm, speaking of cake, I've been dreaming of a raspberry meringue cake... perhaps I may have to whip one up for the intrepid readers of this odyssey-length chapter - provided you shoot me a review now that you're here! Please tell me your thoughts on this climactic (or not?) chapter; Macarthur's end, the lack of a Tintin and Monique kiss (I know, I know, just... NOT YET) or ideas on what you think will happen next - go CRAZY! I certainly am, because it is crazy awesome to be posting this. *dances madly with Tintin beanie baby*
There are seven more chapters to come, and my (tentative) goal is to finish posting all of those before school starts up again... so, I'm off to get my sun-addled brain working on Ch. 26! ;) Please leave a review, start a commune, and hug a cat - in that order. I'll catch you on the flip side!
P.S. - WAIT, just one more thing! You may have noticed the weird Korean spam problem (a bunch of gibberish stories that were posted nearly on the hour) in our very own Tintin category, over the past few months. In response to this, I created a community that I invite all of you to join called Tintin and The Anti-Spam Establishment - a spam-free archive of every human-written Tintin story on this site (or nearly every, anyway.) But recently, someone on the FF net support must have heard our cries for help, because much of the spam has been cleared off and now only about 25 of the fake stories remain. YAY! So feel free to follow the community and sidestep that spot of bother, but I am very hopeful that soon the problem will be eliminated entirely. Victory is ours! *punches a victory 'V' into the air*